Don't
by Max Howle
Summary: "Sherlock looked past the tips of his shoes, to the ground fifty feet or so below.On the ground he saw an old rusted old chain-link fence, snow lacing through the metal, topped with three strings of barb wire. As he stood there, at that moment, all he could think was, how far out would he have to jump out and not land on the fence? All he wanted was it not to hurtanymore" (teenlock


Don't

Sherlock could see his breath, the dull glow of the street lamps casting over him and sending the world into long shadows against the winter snow that lightly fell around Sherlock. He worse nothing more than the thin undershirt of his school uniform, a white button up, with black trousers and shoes that barely kept the snow from melting and seeping through the soft leather that bound them.

With a shiver running down his spine Sherlock barely noticed the growing icy shell that seemed to embody him, they was his already too pale skin seemed to take on a light blue hue, his body shaking intensely. Sherlock looked over his shoulder; given it was only two in the morning he was not surprised no cars had driven by him as he walked along the icy road. He set his eyes forward once more, wondering briefly if he would freeze to death before he go to his destination. The thought made Sherlock give a hopeful smile, yet it faded as the small obnoxious voice in the back of his mind pointed out the unlikelihood of freezing to death in the short amount of time left to reach the bridge.

The snow began to fall heavier, setting a fresh blanket of white against the four inches that already smothered the ground. Street lamps flicked in the distance, and Sherlock knew he wasn't far from where he wanted to go. Sherlock slowly made his way to the bridge, an overpass, running his hand along the railing looking over the edge ever so often. Sherlock had never been on afraid of heights, he found the thought of having such fears childish and stupid, then again what did he know?

As he reached what seemed to be the middle of the overpass Sherlock slowed down, above him was another flickering streetlamp. Sherlock stopped, turning and leaning over the edge of the railing, looking over to the highway below, seeing the black pavement, snow trying to constantly drown it, to fade the black to white. Sherlock gave a small sad smile, the corner of his lip quivering slightly.

Sherlock gripped the railing tighter, and then slowly, ever so slowly, climbed the railing, like three rungs of a ladder. Sherlock was exceedingly careful not to slip. He stood atop the top rail, bracing himself on the streetlamp for a minute, before climbing down the other side of the rail. Sherlock had the small realization that he had so few choices in his life, but this, this was most certainly one.

Sherlock was tall for seventeen, as he turned he could feel the railing pressing against his back, directly under his shoulder blades. Slowly deliberately, he extended his arms, his fingertips lightly trailing against the icy metal, until he could reach no farther, Sherlock gripped the cold metal, clutching it tightly at first, taking quick panicked breaths at first. After a minute Sherlock felt himself relax, his grip soften. Sherlock could feel the heavy wet snow fall on his face, soaking his hair, his clothes, his whole body.

Looking down at his shoes, old dress shoes that his brother had given him so many years ago, Sherlock experimentally rocked ever so slightly back and forth. He could feel hard concrete under his heels his arches rocking on the edge, his toes on nothing.

Sherlock looked past the tips of his shoes, to the ground fifty feet or so below. On the ground he saw an old rusted old chain-link fence, snow lacing through the metal, topped with three strings of barb wire. As he stood there, at that moment, all he could think was, 'how far out would he have to jump out and not land on the fence?' All he wanted was it not to hurt anymore.

Briefly Sherlock put things into a perspective, of sorts, though it did no good of course. Sherlock wondered of he had made the right choice, as most anyone in his position would. It was an instinct in some ways, trying to find the way out, trying to see the smallest of hopes, another flickering light.

Sherlock thought of the way he hated the way the sunlight would show through the windows in the morning, every morning, again and again. How he hated the way he had to wake up, simply to struggle another day as a freak, living the same mundane existence as always. Was it really wrong to want that to end?

At that moment his entire life was completely in his control. Living in a hellish torrent his whole existence it was an unfamiliar, exhilarating, and satisfying feeling to feel he had control over his whole life. So, he stood there, in that feeling, to have agency over his life for once.

An icy wind brushing past his face brought Sherlock out of the thought, he blinked, the wind seemed to almost carry his name. He took a deep breath in; as he did he let his arms raised from the railing, it was as if they were weightless, feeling the arches of his feet on the edge start to shift, he felt himself pitch forward. For a moment he could feel the wind whip around his body, in a perfect moment he felt no pain, no fear, no hate, simply peace, quite.

His body was completely limp, loose, he felt weightless, and it was an understatement to say if felt nice. Another gust of wind that seemed to say his name, he ignored it. Ice air filled his lungs, his eyes closed, and the smallest of grins played on his lips as he simply let it all go. Until a sharp jolt ran through his body, his soaking icy clothes pressing against his chest, holding him back, as if a tread of the rough fabric had caught on the railing.

Sherlock's eyes opened, irritation written on his face. He felt like he was almost horizontal, his body at an angle, the arches of his feet digging into the edge of the concrete. "Sherlock." A familiar voice sighed, sounding relieved, coming directly behind Sherlock.

With a swift movement to person behind Sherlock pulled him by the shirt back, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's chest and pulling him over the railing to the other side.

Sherlock suddenly felt cold. He hadn't felt it before but now he could feel the bone chilling ice shards digging into his skin, the way he could barely move without it hurting, how he couldn't breathe unless his breaths were short and quick.

The next thing he felt was warmth, the smallest bit of warmth as strong arms warped around his chest from behind, tight, almost too tight. The embrace sending pain down his body, the pressure on cold skin like needles stabbing into him, trying to tear at him. And the warmth, it hurt, like after you have been outside and your hands are freezing, but when you put them in front of a heater it burns. Yet Sherlock didn't pull away, he reveled in the warmth, even though it hurt.

After a long moment the embrace loosened and Sherlock was spun around, facing the person, simply to be hugged again, even tighter, where he could barely breathe. Yet he still did not pull away. He barely saw his face, but even if he didn't he was certain who it was as he buried his face into the shorter boy's shoulder. Sherlock felt the softness of that damned oatmeal colored cable knit jumper, and was surrounded by the scent of tea and jam and warmth and everything that was so distinguishably John Watson.

"John." Sherlock said in a hushed tone, almost inaudible. His throat was dry and his body was trembling with such force John had to hold him still. Sherlock's arm's laced around John in a hug, barely able to hold the blond. Sherlock felt weak but he put every ounce of energy into hugging John back.

"I hate you." John said roughly, his voice was raw, deep, and Sherlock could almost _feel _the pain in John's words. Sherlock could feel John shaking softly, his shoulders heaving as John cried silently, sharp breaths escaping John's lips with every intake of air.

"Then why didn't you let me…?" Sherlock asked ever so softly, he felt tears prick at the back of his eyes, regret and doubt and fear and hate for himself flooded him, drowning him. All the emotion that had been void only moments ago came back with a ravenous force tenfold.

"Because I bloody love you more than I hate you." John said between small gasps. He was scared. He was crying because he was scared. He was crying because of Sherlock. He was actually_ crying _because he was scared of losing Sherlock.

"Stop it." Sherlock said sadly, he felt defeated, as if he couldn't even do this right. He couldn't do any god damn thing right, even death. "Stop crying."

"You almost killed yourself Sherlock!" John yelled, suddenly pushing Sherlock away from him, towards the middle of the road, then taking quick steps closer to the taller dark hair teen. "You almost bloody killed yourself and I… I" John's voice cracked. Tears were rushing down his face, his deep blue eyes rimmed with red, as he fell to his knees on the snow covered ground, covering his face with his hands and sobbing.

Sherlock blinked, he had never seen John like this. John Watson was quite possible one of the strongest people he knew. John had never cried in front of him before. When John's father was abusive or John was broken up with by a girl he truly cared about he had never cried. Yet there he was, sobbing like a child over his friend.

"John." Sherlock whispered, approaching him, snow crunching under his footfall. John looked up, and for a second Sherlock saw the most intense fear and sadness he had ever seen in any human being. John blinked and it turned to rage, to absolute hate. "Get it the bloody car Sherlock." He said, so calmly, so casually.

Sherlock took a breath, he no longer felt bad for himself, he felt upset with himself for disappointing his one and only true friend. He looked around, and saw the old beat up red truck John's father owned not far from where they were. How had he not noticed it before?

Sherlock made his way the truck, the engine running silently for how old the beat up thing was. Sherlock's shaking almost blue hand reached out once he reached the passenger side, grabbing the rusted door handle and tugging it open. Sherlock climbed into the truck, being hit by a wave of hot air. His skin exploded with pain but Sherlock still climbed in, rubbing his arms, trying to adjust to the heat.

Sherlock sat there for what seemed like hours, slowly getting his skin back to its normal almost white color. He was beyond amazed he hadn't gotten hypothermia. John opened the door abruptly; his eyes looked raw from crying. Sherlock felt another wave of guilt. "I'm sorry I yelled at you." John said quietly, looking directly out the windshield.

"It's ok."

"No, it's not."

Silence.

"…John…?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"You said you loved me."

"Yeah." John said, almost distantly.

"Did you mean it?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

John clutched the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. He slowly hit the gas; they started making their way back. Sherlock and John sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

"John?"

"What?"

"I… I love you too."

John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, and then looked straight forward once again. They sat in silence for another almost hour until they reached the front door of John's house. He stopped the truck, cut the engine, and let out a long sigh, as if he had been holding it in the entire ride.

"What am I supposed to do now?" He asked silently. "What am I supposed to do with you now? What Sherlock? No, seriously, what?"

"I don't know."

"I want you to stay with me a while." John said. "Mum likes you, and father will most likely not notice, if anything simply yell at me for having brought in another mouth to feed, but that's my problem."

Sherlock knew better than to fight with John when he was upset. "Thank you."

There was a long silence.

"You scared me." John said, as if trying desperately not to let his voice crack. It did anyway.

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." John said sternly, his gaze quickly snapping to Sherlock, glaring at him. "You would've fallen if I wasn't there. You would've died. You would've left me all fucking alone in this stupid bloody world and you know what? You didn't even have the decency to say goodbye. I _saved _you. I _had _to. Because God knows you would've let yourself die. No! You know what? I'm sorry. _I'm Sorry. _I must be a fucking inconvenience because you were about to fucking _leave me. _So don't you dare apologize. Because you weren't sorry when you tried to jump off a God damn overpass and _die._"

Sherlock should have felt angry. He should feel like John had no right to tell him what was right and wrong, what he should and shouldn't do. Sherlock should be upset his friend is yelling at him after almost killing himself. But, then again, if John did that, he wouldn't be John. Instead Sherlock felt guilt. In those moments on the bridge he hadn't felt guilt; he hadn't considered anyone but himself. He hadn't even entertained the thought someone might miss him.

John suddenly opened the door, slamming it behind him and marching up to his house's front door. He turned on the balls of his feet quickly, crossing his arms and waiting for Sherlock to fallow. Sherlock could see John suppressing his shivers, the tears; he was trying to be strong. Good old John, always trying to be strong for Sherlock. John handled his sadness, his pain with yelling at Sherlock. It was his thought of a way out of crying. Of looking weak. John thought it was wrong to show Sherlock how weak he made him. Sherlock wondered what was wrong with himself, given the fact he was so much weaker than John.

Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped out onto the curb. John swallowed, and Sherlock walked quickly up to him, grabbing John and hugging him tightly, just as John done him earlier. John tensed, then relaxed, unfolding his arms and hugging Sherlock back.

"I really do love you, Sherlock, you do understand how much you have hurt me, right? I love you and you tried to leave." John said as he held the taller. "I love you so fucking much."

Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm so sorry, John. Really I am. I love you too. You have no idea."

"Don't ever leave."

"Ok."

"For me, just… Don't."

Sherlock pulled away ever so slightly, then kissed him, sealing a silent promise.


End file.
